My Husband's Wife (7 page)

I need to run faster. Or I'll miss the bus. If I were thinner, it might be easier to run. Lollop, lollop, go my breasts against my chest. The same breasts that Ed had fondled when he'd rolled on top of me unexpectedly last night. Yet afterwards, when his eyes finally opened, they expressed surprise at the person beneath him.

Me.

I too had been surprised. In my half-awake state, I had imagined someone else. His soft hands on my breasts. His mouth on mine. His hardness against my body …

‘Got to wash,' I mumbled before staggering to the tiny bathroom and drying my eyes. When I returned, Ed was fast asleep.

Where had that come from? Why had I imagined Joe in bed with me? A man whom I disliked …

And who was Ed imagining? I can guess. There might not be anything concrete apart from that overfamiliar gesture the other night. But I can smell it. Just as I smelled Joe. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's to listen to my intuition.

While all these thoughts churned endlessly through my mind, Ed slept. He looked so peaceful. Snoring lightly, a growth of fine fair hair on his chin. Quietly, so as not to
wake him, I eased myself out of bed, tiptoed into the kitchen and got out the mop.

I got so distracted that I didn't sense Ed coming in until I heard his voice. ‘Why are you cleaning the floor at this time?' He was fastening his tie as he spoke. It bore, though he didn't seem to have noticed it, a drop of blood from the shaving nick on his neck.

I looked up from my kneeling position. ‘It's grubby.'

‘Won't you be late for work?'

So what? I needed to make the lino gleam. If I couldn't make it all right with my marriage, I had to make it all right with the kitchen floor.

And that's why I'm running now. If I hadn't gone mad with the cleaning, I wouldn't have left the flat fifteen minutes later than normal. Wouldn't be watching the bus disappear up the street. Wouldn't be dreading the excuses I'd have to make to my boss.

As I come panting to a halt, I see Carla, nose pressed against the glass, waving madly at me. ‘Come on,' she mouths. Then she appears to add something else.

Fatty?
Surely not. Carla's a sweet child. Although I've seen the way Francesca looks at me pityingly. And I've also seen how the daughter copies everything the mother does.

Besides, it wouldn't be the first time someone had called me fat.

As I sit waiting for the next bus, I can't help thinking about Carla. Carla and her green caterpillar.

‘You stole him, didn't you?' I'd said when we looked after her yesterday. ‘Why?'

There was a shy yet defiant turn of the head. A
discomfortingly mature pose which suggested it was practised. ‘Everyone else has one. I didn't want to be different.'

I don't want to be different.
Just what Daniel used to say.

My instinct's right. I've got to help this child.

My boss is waiting in his office. He's about thirty years older than me and has a wife who gave up her job when she got married. I get the distinct feeling he disapproves of me.

Soon after I'd joined the firm, I was foolish enough to tell one of my colleagues that I wanted to go into law ‘to do some good'.

My boss overheard. ‘Good?' he scoffed. ‘You're in the wrong job for that, I can tell you.'

I flushed (if only there was a cure!) and kept my head down after that. Yet at times, especially when he's barking at me, I want to tell him what happened with Daniel.

Of course I wouldn't really. Even Ed wouldn't understand if I told him the full story. It would be madness to tell my boss. He's sitting across from me now, a pile of papers between us, and a frosty smile on his lips. ‘So how are you getting on with Joe Thomas?'

I cross my legs under the table and uncross them again. I'm aware of Ed's imprint from last night, still inside me. Etched on my body like the surprise on his face.

‘The client is still playing games with me.'

My boss laughs. It's not a friendly laugh. ‘He's in a prison with a high proportion of psychopaths, Lily. What do you expect?'

‘I expect a better briefing.' The words are out of my
mouth before I can take them back. Fear gives me courage – rightly or wrongly – to stand up for myself. ‘I don't think I have enough background,' I carry on, trying to recover the situation. ‘Why has he launched an appeal after being inside for two years? And why won't he talk to me properly instead of speaking in riddles?'

I pull out the paper Joe gave me with the strange numbers and letters.

‘What do you think these figures mean?' I ask, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘The client gave them to me.'

My boss barely glances at the creased sheet. ‘No idea. This is your case, Lily. New evidence, perhaps, that he's only just got hold of? That might explain the delay in the appeal.' His eyes narrow. ‘I'm throwing you in at the deep end, just as they did to me at your age. It's your chance to prove yourself. Don't let either of us down.'

I spend the rest of the week doing what I can. But there are other cases too in my workload. They pile up with intentional regularity, or so it seems. Clearly, my boss is testing me. Just as Ed is doing, with his blow-hot, blow-cold approach to me.

‘I'm struggling with that client still,' I start to say one evening over dinner: an undercooked steak and kidney pie which doesn't look quite like the picture in the well-worn Fanny Craddock book that Ed's mother passed on to me. Ed is chewing slowly, as well he might. My meal is a challenge. Davina, by the way, went to one of those cookery schools in Switzerland.

‘The one who … Ed? Are you all right?'

I jump up from the table. Ed's gasping for breath and
his face has gone all red. Something's stuck in his throat. Shocked into action, my hand whacks down on Ed's back. A piece of meat shoots out across the room. He splutters and then reaches for a glass of water.

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘Perhaps it was a bit underdone.'

‘No.' He's still spluttering, but his hand comes up to reach mine. ‘Thank you. You saved me.'

For a minute, there's a connection between us. But then it goes. Neither of us feels like eating any more. I scrape the offending meat into the bin, realizing, too late, that it should have been braised before I put on the pastry top. But there's something else too.

How easy it would have been to let Ed choke to death. To pretend it was an accident.

I'm shocked – no, appalled – at myself. Where did that thought come from?

But it's then that I have my idea.

Ross. The actuary I met at that awful party when Ed and Davina had disappeared. Hadn't he discussed this very issue with me?
I work out how long people have to live from statistics. How many people are likely to choke to death or get leukaemia before they're sixty. Cheery stuff, I know, but it's important, you see, for insurance
.

So I got his number from Ed. And yes, Ross was free the following day. How about lunch at his club?

‘These figures,' I say, handing the sheet of paper over to Ross as we sit at a table with a stiff white tablecloth and hovering waiter, ‘were compiled by a client of mine. He's … well, he's in prison for murder.'

Ross shot me a surprised look. ‘And you think he's innocent?'

‘Actually, you might be surprised if you met him.'

‘Really?'

We fall silent as the waiter pours out our wine. Just one glass, I tell myself. Nowadays, I appear to be drinking more than I used to, which isn't good for concentration or my calorie intake. But Ed likes a couple of glasses every evening and it seems wrong not to keep him company.

‘I need to know what these figures refer to,' I say, rather desperately. ‘Joe's good with numbers.'

‘Joe?' His eyebrows rise.

‘We're often on first-name terms with our clients.' I hurry on, reminding myself that, actually, Joe had told me to call him ‘Mr Thomas' until I'd solved his riddle. ‘This man has some kind of condition. He's very methodical in some areas and yet finds it difficult to speak to people. He prefers to speak in puzzles, and this … well, this is one of them.'

I detect a gleam of interest in Ross's eyes. ‘I'll look into it.' His tone is so reassuring that I almost want to hug him. ‘Give me a few days and I'll come back to you.'

And he did. ‘A mixture of water temperatures and models of boilers, including their age,' he says now, beaming. ‘And, if I'm not mistaken, the implications are pretty big. I showed them to an engineer friend – don't worry, I didn't give him the background. But he said that there's a definite pattern. So I had a hunch and did a bit of rooting around in our resource department.'

He hands me a newspaper cutting. It's from
The Times
back in August when I was preparing for my wedding. An exciting time, when I hadn't, perhaps, read the paper as carefully as I normally did.

I scan the piece with increasing excitement. ‘So,' I say, summarizing the article in front of me, ‘a number of boilers, made over the last ten years, are suspected of being faulty. To date, seven customers have made complaints involving irregular temperatures leading to injury. Investigations are currently being carried out, but so far there are no plans to recall the models in question.'

Ross nods. ‘That's seven who have come forward, but there are sure to be more.'

‘But it's been going on for years. Why didn't anyone realize before now?'

‘These things can take time. It takes a while for people to spot a pattern.'

Of course it would. Lawyers can miss things too. But I can't be one of them.

‘I've worked out the figures,' I say as I enter the visitors' room the following day.

Funny how this is becoming more natural now. Even the double doors and gates seem quite familiar. The same goes for the seemingly casual pose of my client, arms crossed as he leans back in his chair, those dark eyes fixed on mine. This man is thirty. Ed's age – my husband had his birthday a few weeks ago. Yet I feel as though I'm dealing with a truculent teenager.

One thing's for certain. I'm not going to allow those ridiculous fantasies into my head again.

‘Worked out the figures?' He seems slightly annoyed. ‘Really?'

‘I know about the boilers. The lawsuit. You're going to tell me that the boiler company is responsible for Sarah's death. You said the water was hotter than you'd expect after thirty minutes. Your boiler was faulty. It's your defence – or rather your
self-
defence.'

He's tilting his head quizzically to one side, as if considering this. ‘But I told you before. Self-defence can't get you off.'

‘It can if you have the right lawyer,' I shoot back.

‘Congratulations.' He's gone from disappointed to smiling in just a few seconds. Holding out his hand as if to shake mine.

I ignore it. I'm cross. Unnerved too.

‘Why couldn't you just have told me about the boiler figures at the start? It would have saved a lot of time.'

‘I told you before. I had to set you the clues to see if you were bright enough to handle my case. I must have someone who's on my level for this. Someone on the ball.'

Thank you, Ross, I think silently. Thank you.

Then he leans back, slaps himself on the thighs and lets out another laugh. ‘And you did it, Lily. Well done! You're hired.'

Hired? I thought I was already.

‘You still haven't told me exactly what happened.' My voice is cool, laying down a boundary between him and me. ‘I've had enough of messing around now,' I add. ‘If you want me to represent you, I need to know everything about
you. No more clues. No more games. Straight facts. Why, for example, did you always cook dinner? Why did you usually run Sarah's bath?' I take a deep breath. ‘Was Sarah right when she told her family you were controlling?'

His face is rigid. ‘Why do you need to know?'

‘Because I think it might help us.'

For a while, he says nothing. I let the silence hang between us. It's so sharp that I can almost cut myself on it.

I suspect Joe Thomas feels it too. He is looking out of the window. There's no one in sight, even though it's another beautiful crisp autumn day. Maybe the other men are at work; they all have jobs in the prison. I see the list in the hall when I walk in. Chalked-up surnames next to a task.

Smith – Pod. (Apparently that's prison jargon for ‘kitchen'.)

White – Toilets.

Essex – Fish tank.

Thomas – Library
.
(Why does that not surprise me?)

Next to each name is also the word ‘Education'. I wonder what they learn in prison. Simple reading perhaps, if literacy statistics are to be believed. Or something more advanced? (Later, I was to discover, many men take OU degrees.)

‘The bath, Joe,' I repeat. ‘Why did you usually run it for her?'

My client's voice is quieter than usual. I can barely hear it. ‘So I can make sure that the cold goes in first. It's what I've always done. Means you don't burn yourself.' The thump of his fist on the table makes me jump. ‘Stupid girl. She should have listened to me.'

‘Fine. The bath was too hot. But that doesn't matter. They proved you pushed her in.'

His face hardens. ‘Didn't prove. Just argued successfully. I've already told you. I didn't touch her. She must've fallen in. The bruises must be from that.'

‘So why didn't she get out again if the bath was so hot?'

‘Because … she … was … too … drunk.'

He says each word slowly, with a long space in between, as though I need it spelling out.

‘If she'd let me run the bath for her, it wouldn't have happened,' he says again. He seems obsessed with this point. And something about his obsession makes me believe him. About this part anyway.